The train ride home was empty, and Kemi stared at passing lights. She thought about Tunde, about herself, about all the small shifts that had seemed invisible until now.
No shouting, no dramatic fights, no warnings. Just gentle, almost invisible guidance that rewrote how she measured herself.
She thought about her family, her friends, her community. She wondered how many other people were learning the same lessons silently, adjusting their laughter, their speech, their freedom, for reasons they couldn't explain.
And she realized the weight of small choices, quiet control, and subtle harm was always heavier than anyone imagined—because it doesn't announce itself. It settles quietly, and those who live with it carry it without knowing how far it has traveled.